


bet on me

by oikazumi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Las Vegas, M/M, Mentioned Kuroo Tetsurou, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Riding, Strangers to Lovers, iwaizumi is so smitten, one night stands that become more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29103693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oikazumi/pseuds/oikazumi
Summary: “I don’t usually do this,” Oikawa admits.“Me neither,” Iwaizumi says.“Really? You don’t get dozens of handsome, charming, wealthy men clamoring to sweep you off your feet while you’re working?”“Believe it or not, no.” Iwaizumi cocks his head, looking Oikawa up and down. “And honestly, the ‘charming’ part is still up in the air.”Oikawa is a businessman. Iwaizumi is a blackjack dealer. They meet in the middle.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 16
Kudos: 194





	bet on me

After two years of working on the strip, you’d think he would be used to the flashing lights and loud noises and the smell of smoke that clings to _everything._ And for the most part he is, but there are always nights like these, nights where it’s all a little much.

Iwaizumi has a headache. He presses his fingers into his temple as discreetly as he can, trying to massage the pain away without anyone noticing. The ceiling is nowhere near high enough to allow all the cigarette smoke to dissipate. Instead it hangs heavy in the air, shadowing the room in a soupy haze that makes it hard to focus.

Iwaizumi shakes his head to clear it. He brings his focus back to the cards in front of him. With less than half an hour until his shift ends, he can stick it out until it’s time to leave.

The man directly across from him, whose turn it is, has a queen and a four. He has the appearance of a middling executive, what with the obvious combover and the rumpled gray suit that’s been tailored to look more expensive than it actually is. He taps the table.

Iwaizumi flips another card over for him: a nine. Bust.

The man scowls and pushes his pile of chips over to Iwaizumi, who scoops them up and counts them out into neat stacks. As he does, the businessman stands, knocking his stool backward. Iwaizumi sighs, putting the chips in with the rest of the house’s pot. He’s not surprised; he’d expected the guy to be a sore loser. When will these people learn, Iwaizumi wonders, not to bet more than you can afford to lose?

The woman beside him reaches down and restores the stool to its upright position before taking her turn. She and the house tie at 19, and she looks about ready to call it a night as well.

It’s a Thursday night in the middle of January, a slow night for the casino. Iwaizumi’s thoughts are already far away, fixed on the idea of a hot shower and his flannel pajamas and the leftover pizza in his fridge. But his attention is caught by a new pair of suits that sidle up to his table.

The one in the lead is tall, with an unprofessional mess of black bedhead and his tie hanging loose. There’s a calculating gleam in his eyes despite the nonchalant air he tries to adopt. His suit is Armani, tailored to his body in sharp lines.

Then Iwaizumi’s eyes move to the man behind him, slightly shorter but no less intimidating, and his eyes widen. Maybe it’s the cheap fluorescent lights, or maybe it’s the way the haze of smoke softens his features, but the man is angelic, all shiny chestnut hair and pale skin. Iwaizumi can’t help but follow the smooth arch of his throat, the creamy exposed skin at his collar. He’s got these big brown eyes, guarded but shining with curiosity, that scan the room like it’s his first time in a place like this And when they come to rest on Iwaizumi, he forgets how to breathe.

Iwaizumi straightens as they approach. This could be interesting.

The brunet notices Iwaizumi’s gaze, and his lips curve into a pleased smirk. They part around the first syllable of a greeting, but then Bedhead slides into the emptied stool, knocking on the table. “Yo,” he drawls. “This thing open?”  
  


Iwaizumi tears his eyes away and fixes his expression into a polite half-smile. “Betting starts at a hundred per player.”

“Boring,” Bedhead says. He makes a show of counting out enough chips to amount to a thousand dollars.

His partner scoffs, crossing his arms. “No one likes a show-off, Kuroo.”

Iwaizumi turns to him. “Are you also betting?” he asks.

“Oh, no,” the brunet waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “I don’t like to throw money away.”

Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow. “Scared you’ll lose?”

He laughs. “Hardly. Let’s just say I don’t believe in luck.”

Bedhead—Kuroo—clears his throat. “If you’re done chatting up the dealer, Oikawa,” he says. “I have a few rounds of blackjack to win.”

_Oikawa._ Iwaizumi tucks that information away for later. He waits for Kuroo and the two other players still at the table to place their bets. And then he deals.

The game flies by, but Iwaizumi barely notices it. Kuroo is better than most of the other players at the table, or luckier. He’s also richer; it doesn’t seem to faze him at all when he loses three hands—three thousand dollars—in a row. “I’ll win it back anyway,” he says casually, and over the course of the next twenty minutes, he manages to break even.

To be honest, Iwaizumi’s attention is barely on the cards. It’s on Oikawa, standing with his arms behind his back, leaning over the table to get a better look at the proceedings. Some of his bangs fall into his face, and his eyes positively glow with curiosity. Unfair.

After a particularly fast round where Kuroo wins twenty to eighteen, someone taps Iwaizumi on the shoulder. It’s Suga, signaling the end of his shift, and he steps aside with a grateful nod to the other dealer.

Iwaizumi makes it less than three steps away from the table before Oikawa stops him in his tracks. He flashes a quick smile, and the effect that it has on Iwaizumi should not be legal.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi greets. “If you’ve changed your mind about playing, you can talk to Suga over there. I’m off the clock.”

Oikawa clasps his hands together. “Actually, I was—” he squints at the name tag on Iwaizumi’s vest. “I was hoping to talk to you, Iwa-chan. Off the clock, as it were.”

“Iwa-chan?” Iwaizumi asks.

“It suits you.” Oikawa grins at him, unrepentant.

“Whatever you say.” Iwaizumi huffs. “Alright, come on.”

He gestures for Oikawa to follow him, leads him past a door marked _Staff Only._ The din of the casino floor fades into faint ambience. Oikawa looks around, taking in the new surroundings. They’re nowhere near as glamorous as the main building was. They don’t need to be; these hallways are only used by employees.

“Thought we could use some privacy,” Iwaizumi says, leaning against a wall.

“Oh? How forward.”

Iwaizumi scowls. “Shut up, not like that. What did you want me for?”

Oikawa pouts. “I’m not dumb, Iwa-chan. I see how you’ve been looking at me, you know. And Kuroo is always telling me to take more risks, so I figured…” he trails off. “I don’t usually do this,” he admits.

“Me neither,” Iwaizumi says. His throat is dry all of a sudden, now that he knows what Oikawa is getting at.

“Really? You don’t get dozens of handsome, charming, wealthy men clamoring to sweep you off your feet while you’re working?”

“Believe it or not, no.” Iwaizumi cocks his head, looking Oikawa up and down. “And honestly, the ‘charming’ part is still up in the air.”

“I’m charming!” Oikawa protests.

Iwaizumi snorts. “Yeah, no.” He hesitates, torn between going with Oikawa and going back home, where his bed and his shower await him.

They can wait a little longer, he decides. Sue him—he’s as weak for a pretty face as the next guy. Iwaizumi reaches forward and laces his hand with Oikawa’s. “I’d like to take you up on that offer,” he murmurs. “Maybe you can prove me wrong.”

Oikawa brightens. “Oh, good,” he says, unable to hide his relief. “It would have been really embarrassing for me to have come all the way here with you just for you to say no.”

And Oikawa is… not the suave playboy Iwaizumi expected when he first approached the blackjack table. But maybe Iwaizumi likes him more this way, nervous and a little bit shy. Maybe this is more honest.

Iwaizumi wasn’t lying; he hasn’t had a one night stand in years. But Vegas is a city built on one night stands, where everything is shiny and new in the dark and you don’t learn the truth of its superficiality ‘til the morning comes around.

“Lead the way,” Iwaizumi says.

“You got it, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says. His smile is like a pearl at the bottom of a murky pool, and Iwaizumi dives in headfirst.

-

Oikawa is rooming in the penthouse suite, because of course he is. There’s a bottle of aged cabernet sauvignon in an ice bucket on the counter, but the room looks otherwise pristine, untouched. Oikawa grabs the bottle and two wine glasses and ushers them to the couch, where he unscrews the cork and pours each of them a drink.

He holds one out to Iwaizumi, who accepts it but says, “Looks like you were expecting company. What happened to ‘I don’t do this often?’”

“I don’t,” Oikawa says, swirling the wine in its glass and taking an experimental sip. “I bought this with Kuroo’s credit card because he wouldn’t let me choose the hotel. I wanted the Waldorf Astoria.”

Iwaizumi smacks him. “Brat.”

“Hey!” Oikawa pouts for all of two seconds before he’s smiling again, like it never happened. He shifts closer, planting one hand beside Iwaizumi’s thigh. “For what it’s worth, though, I’m glad we ended up here.”

Dark eyes gaze at Iwaizumi from under dark eyelashes. Iwaizumi wishes he could say they weren’t affecting him, but he’s not that strong.

He swallows hard, opening his mouth to—to kiss Oikawa? To say something? He doesn’t know. But he doesn’t get the chance. Abruptly, Oikawa sits back, downing another gulp of his drink. There’s a touch of pink to his cheeks. “Do you want anything to eat?” Oikawa asks. He picks a menu off the coffee table. “I can get room service.”

At the mention of food, Iwaizumi’s stomach rumbles, and the tense mood is shattered. “I could eat,” he says. “Pizza?”

Oikawa laughs. “Sure thing. My treat.”

Iwaizumi settles into a more relaxed position on the couch, bringing the glass of wine to his lips. He watches Oikawa dial room service and order their food, lets his airy voice wash over him.

When he’s done, Oikawa puts the phone down and turns back to Iwaizumi with half-lidded eyes. “You know, it’s going to take a while to come,” he says. “If only there was some way we could pass the time.”

Iwaizumi laughs at him. “Shitty lines like that only work in movies,” he says.

“You said I wasn’t charming,” Oikawa says, affronted. “I’m trying to be.”

Iwaizumi starts to explain that he doesn’t want charming, but then Oikawa leans forward and cups his neck with one hand, and his pulse jumps. His mouth clicks closed, and he promptly forgets everything he was planning to say.

“Can I kiss you?” Oikawa asks.

His eyes flicker to Oikawa’s lips, pink and full and parted slightly. Instead of answering, he takes both glasses, one of them half empty and the other still full, and sets them on the table. And then he presses their mouths together.

They kiss hungrily, tongues and teeth sliding against each other. Oikawa’s hands are hot on his skin, and Iwaizumi fists his own in the soft brown hair he’s wanted to touch since he first saw it. Oikawa sighs, pleased, at the slight tug, climbing into Iwaizumi’s lap and pushing him down until he’s reclining against the arm of the couch.

In his line of work, Iwaizumi has seen people lost. He’s watched the same customers come in day after day, bloodshot eyes and creased clothes, to gamble themselves and their families into debt. He’s known people to lie to their lovers, their parents, their children, to leave their beds in the middle of the night just for a taste of the game.

That’s what kissing Oikawa is. Like falling into a trap with your eyes wide open. Like selling your soul to the devil.

He tastes like red wine, smooth and sweet and deceptively easy. Iwaizumi wants to drink all of him in, wants to kiss him until he bleeds. When Iwaizumi inhales, his lungs are filled with Oikawa’s cologne, citrusy and bright. It suits him.

Without opening eyes, he pushes Oikawa’s jacket off his shoulders and loosens his tie with clumsy fingers. Oikawa repays him in turn, fumbling with the buttons of Iwaizumi’s uniform vest.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa murmurs, breathless. Their lips separate just the fraction of an inch. “Bed, come on.”

He looks much less composed than he did mere minutes ago: bitten red lips and mussed hair flying every which way. But he doesn’t look as wrecked as Iwaizumi wants him.

Iwaizumi brings his teeth to the delicate skin of Oikawa’s neck, mouthing a trail of bruises to his collarbone, popping two of his shirt buttons open when they get in the way. He grabs Oikawa’s thighs and, with some maneuvering, manages to stand up with Oikawa’s legs wrapped around his waist.

Oikawa squeaks, grabbing onto his shoulders. “I-Iwa,” he says.

“Hm?” Iwaizumi mouths at a particularly red patch of skin, navigating them to what he hopes is Oikawa’s bedroom. Luckily, Oikawa doesn’t say anything to the contrary, so he must have guessed right.

When they get there, he drops Oikawa on the bed. He lands with a small grunt and stares up at Iwaizumi with wide eyes.

“You didn’t tell me you could do that,” Oikawa says. “What have we been wasting all this time for?”

Iwaizumi grins, undoing his button-up shirt and shucking it. “The sooner you get naked, the sooner we can get started,” he suggests.

From there it turns into a race of who can strip first. Iwaizumi, having had a head starts, wins, and then he gets to stand back and watch as Oikawa follows, as tantalizing pale skin is revealed to him inch by inch.

Oikawa shimmies out of his pants and, unlike Iwaizumi, his boxers as well, depositing them on the floor. He glances up and blushes when he notices Iwaizumi’s gaze fixed on him. The red flush blooms in his cheeks and spreads down his neck and chest, almost as if it’s staining him.

“Jesus,” Iwaizumi mutters.

He steps forward, dragging Oikawa by his hair into another filthy kiss. He rests one of his knees on the bed in between Oikawa’s spread thighs, grazing his cock. Oikawa groans, rolling his hips against it, eager for more contact.

Iwaizumi chuckles, pulling away. “Needy,” he says. “It suits you.”

Oikawa flushes even darker, breaking eye contact to let his eyes roam over Iwaizumi’s body. His hands follow in their wake, trailing over Iwaizumi’s shoulders, his toned chest and biceps.

“How do you want to do this?” Iwaizumi asks.

Oikawa’s fingers come to a stop at the waistband of Iwaizumi’s underwear. He licks his lips. “Can I… can I ride you?” he asks.

_“Fuck,”_ Iwaizumi says, hoarse. “Yeah. Uh—yeah, let’s do that.”

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” Oikawa comments, rising from the bed.

They rearrange themselves so that Iwaizumi is seated against the headboard and Oikawa is straddling him. They make out lazily for about a minute. Iwaizumi busies himself with palming Oikawa’s ass, and Oikawa responds by rolling his hips forward, brushing his bare cock against Iwaizumi’s boxer-clad bulge. Both of them moan at that.

Their closeness sends sparks down Iwaizumi’s spine, Oikawa’s body heat leeching into him, but it’s nowhere near enough. He wants more, and maybe this is what addiction feels like, but he doesn’t care.

Iwaizumi grinds against Oikawa again, reveling in the minute tremors that wrack through his body. He frees his dick from the confines of his boxers and wraps a hand around them both, pumping them together. Their combined weight is heavy and slick in his hand, and the friction drags a devastating noise out from between Oikawa’s teeth.

Oikawa is panting into his mouth now—hot, breathy gasps. They’re not kissing anymore so much as Iwaizumi is using his lips to shut Oikawa up.

Iwaizumi grabs Oikawa’s hair and wrenches his head back, breaking the kiss. Oikawa’s eyes flutter open, a little dazed, and stare into Iwaizumi’s. His lips are shiny with spit. Despite his heavy breathing, the corner of his mouth tips up into a small smirk. “Are you going to fuck me or what?” he asks.

That won’t do.

Scowling, Iwaizumi grabs Oikawa’s ass, pulling the cheeks apart to expose his hole to the air. He runs a finger over the cleft and Oikawa shivers, holding onto him for dear life.

“Lube,” Iwaizumi says, and wordlessly, Oikawa reaches over to grab it from a drawer in the bedside table. He has to stretch to get it, almost sliding off Iwaizumi’s lap, but Iwaizumi grabs onto his hips and holds them down, keeping him in place.

He fishes out the bottle of lube and a string of condoms, depositing the latter on the bed. Then, drizzling the lube on his fingers, he lifts himself onto his knees and braces one hand on the headboard.

“Watch me, Iwa-chan,” he says, pressing slick fingers against his entrance, and Iwaizumi can do nothing but swallow hard and agree.

Oikawa emits small sighs and gasps of pleasure as he works himself open, his head thrown back to show off his long neck and the red-purple marks scattered all over it. He moans outright when he adds another finger and scissors them, and Iwaizumi can’t resist taking himself in hand.

Three fingers next. Oikawa knows his body, knows when to twist his fingers and how to crook them so they brush that spot _just there._ Iwaizumi is content to watch him, stroking himself to the soundtrack of noises spilling from Oikawa’s lips.

Finally, after what seems like far too long and yet not long enough, Oikawa pulls his fingers out of himself. He opens his eyes again, and they darken with satisfaction when he realizes that Iwaizumi has been touching himself. “Couldn’t resist?” he purrs.

“God, you’re a fucking tease,” Iwaizumi says. “I’m going to make you regret that.”

“I’d like to see that.”

Oikawa wipes the leftover lube off on his own stomach. It’s a calculated move, intended to draw attention to his abs. Most of what Oikawa does, Iwaizumi decides, is probably calculated.

Well, Iwaizumi is going to change that. He’s going to fuck Oikawa hard enough that his reactions can’t be anything but completely genuine.

He grabs a nearby condom packet and rips it open, rolling it onto himself before slathering it with a layer of lube. He pats his thighs. “Get over here, baby,” he says. “You wanted to ride me.”

Oikawa obeys. He grabs Iwaizumi’s cock, stroking a few times before lining it up with his hole, Iwaizumi’s hands splayed over his hips to help him sink onto it properly.

Oikawa’s mouth falls open as he takes Iwaizumi’s length inside him. “F-fuck,” he stutters. “ _Fuck,_ Iwa-chan—”

Iwaizumi runs a hand up his side, grabbing a nipple with his thumb and index finger and pinching it. Oikawa’s whole body jerks.

“Hajime,” Iwaizumi says.

Oikawa licks his lips. _“Hajime,”_ he whimpers. “Shit—‘m so _full_ .”   
  


“I know,” Iwaizumi croaks, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into Oikawa’s hipbone. He can’t get over how pretty, how _right_ his name sounds from Oikawa’s lips. “So good, angel, you’re doing so good.”

Oikawa trembles all over at the praise. “Yeah?” he asks. He rolls his hips once, causing them to moan in unison.

He starts moving, bouncing on Iwaizumi’s cock, grabbing onto the headboard for support. Iwaizumi is content to let him set the pace. He groans as his cock drags against Oikawa’s walls, hands running over Oikawa’s skin. He whispers all the praise he can think of into Oikawa’s ear: _“Yeah, just like that”_ and _“Fuck, that’s it”_ and _“You feel so good, baby.”_

It’s only when Oikawa’s rhythm slows, when his thighs start to shake with effort, that Iwaizumi decides to help him out. He starts bucking up into Oikawa: short, sharp thrusts that wring breathy gasps out of his throat. He wraps his hands under Oikawa’s thighs, lifting him the brunet up and down on his cock.

“Nngh,” Oikawa moans. “Iwa- _hahh_ \- Hajime- wait- wait.”

Iwaizumi stills. “What’s wrong?”

Oikawa raises himself onto his knees until Iwaizumi’s tip is all that’s left in him. Then he drops down hard, taking the entire length in one rough thrust. Iwaizumi hisses, and Oikawa manages a weak, but still smug, smile. “You said—you said you were gonna make me regret teasing you,” he manages in between breaths. “But here you are making me do all the work.”

Iwaizumi tightens his grip on Oikawa’s thighs. “Is that a challenge, angel?”

Oikawa tilts his head in defiance. “You made a promise,” he says, voice way too even for someone who has an entire dick in him. “So keep it, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi grabs Oikawa and throws him onto his back, hard enough that he bounces slightly on the mattress. He folds Oikawa’s legs to his upper body until he’s bent almost in half, leans down to bite harshly at the juncture of his neck. “You asked for it,” he says.

He wastes no time burying himself back in Oikawa’s tight heat. With the change in angle, he has more control over the pace. Iwaizumi fucks Oikawa hard and fast; the lewd sounds of skin against skin fill the room.

Oikawa cries out, and his fingers scramble desperately for purchase in the sheets around his head.

Iwaizumi’s hands are wrapped around Oikawa’s slender waist, pressing oval bruises into the pale skin. Oikawa will see them for weeks when he’s getting dressed, will feel the tender ache of them for days at least.

Oikawa writhes in his grasp, but Iwaizumi just pushes him harder into the mattress. He changes the angle of his thrusts, and Oikawa’s back arches when the head of Iwaizumi’s cock nails his prostate. A desperate sob tears out of his throat, and Iwaizumi bites back a feral grin as he hits it again. And again.

“So fucking pretty,” Iwaizumi says, breathing hard. “You’re such a mess, so gorgeous, so good for me.”

“Ha—Haji, _please_ — _”_

Iwaizumi leans down and steals the next words out of his mouth with a bruising kiss. It’s not like he’s coherent anyway.

“Tell me what you need, angel,” he says.

“ _Fuck._ H-harder, I need—let me—” Oikawa chokes on air after a particularly deep thrust. “Let me come,” he begs.

Oikawa’s dick lies neglected on his stomach, hard and leaking precum. He tries to reach for it, but Iwaizumi grabs his wrist and pushes it away.

“Ask nicely, and I’ll give it to you,” Iwaizumi says. He won’t be able to hold out for much longer, but he wants to see Oikawa unravel before he does.

Oikawa eyes, which had been screwed shut, open, and Iwaizumi slows down his thrusts to take in how _ruined_ Oikawa looks underneath him. His eyes are glassy, and tears pool at their corners. His once immaculate curls flare out around his head in a disorderly halo. Flushed, skin hot to the touch, lips parted around a series of broken noises; he’s a mess of spit and sweat and lube, and Iwaizumi has never seen anything so beautiful.

“Please, Hajime,” Oikawa begs, the slower pace allowing him to catch his breath. “Make me come, please… I need you.”

“Yeah, alright,” Iwaizumi says. He takes a second to press a kiss to Oikawa’s sweaty forehead. “I’ve got you, angel.”

He resumes the movement of his hips. This time, though, he switches out the initial brutal pace for slower, deeper thrusts that knock the breath from Oikawa’s lungs.

“Touch me,” Oikawa breathes. “Hajime, touch me.”

Iwaizumi does. Oikawa shudders as soon as Iwaizumi’s rough palm comes into contact with his neglected dick. He only holds out a couple of seconds before he spills into Iwaizumi’s hand with a loud cry. Iwaizumi works him through it.

When the last tremors of his orgasm have left him, Oikawa sinks into the bed, boneless. Iwaizumi keeps going, his own climax building inside him like an ocean tide.

Sluggishly, Oikawa dips his fingers in the mess of cum on his stomach. He scoops up a gratuitous amount before bringing them to his lips, and that’s all Iwaizumi can take. He comes with a groan, Oikawa clenching down around him as he rides out the high of his climax.

They spare a moment to catch their breath before Iwaizumi pulls out. He ties up the condom and tosses it into the trash can and a corner. Thankfully, he makes it.

Iwaizumi flops onto his back next to Oikawa. They’re lying on the bed in the wrong direction, their feet propped up by the pillows, but Iwaizumi catches Oikawa’s eye, and they both smile, and neither of them bother to move.

Oikawa rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. A few strands of sweaty hair stick to his forehead; Iwaizumi lifts a hand to brush them away.

Iwaizumi’s heart is racing. Has it been beating so fast this whole time? That seems impossible. He takes deep breaths until it slows and grows steady, and soon his eyes start to close. He’s sticky and way too hot, and they definitely need to shower, but right now, he wouldn’t get up for anything.

That is, until they hear a knock on the door.

“Room service!” a voice calls, and Iwaizumi’s eyes snap open.

They look at each other.

“You get it,” Iwaizumi says.

“Are you kidding me?” Oikawa gestures to his body and it’s mosaic of fingerprints and hickeys. “You barely have any marks on you, Iwa-chan. You go.”

“It’s your hotel room,” Iwaizumi argues. “Besides, the poor guy’s probably seen worse.”

“Maybe _he_ has, but _I_ refuse to let anyone see me like this,” Oikawa hisses.

Iwaizumi throws a hand over his eyes. He snores loudly.

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa tugs on his arm. “Iwa-chan, stop pretending to be asleep.”

All his attempts to get Iwaizumi to budge are in vain. Eventually, he gives in, climbing off the bed. Iwaizumi hears him rummaging in the hotel wardrobe for a robe to wrap around himself before padding out of the room.

Iwaizumi lifts his hand off his eyes. He squints up at the ceiling light.

Talking to Oikawa, teasing him, is more fun than it has any right to be. This, Iwaizumi reflects, is why he doesn’t do one night stands.

But it’s fine. Things will be different in the morning. It all just feels more intense now because he’s late and tired and blissed out. That’s all this is.

Red-faced, Oikawa makes his reappearance, carrying a tray with a cloche atop it. He plops back on the bed and sets it between them, removing the metal lid to reveal a margherita pizza. Iwaizumi heaves himself into a sitting position.

“How was it?” Iwaizumi asked.

“He definitely knew,” Oikawa says, pressing his lips together. “I guess I’m not ordering room service here ever again.”

Iwaizumi laughs. He snags a slice of pizza for himself and shoves almost half of it into his mouth in one bite. It’s good, probably high quality, but he barely notices, too consumed with inhaling as much of it as he can. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

Oikawa watches him with a smile that seems… affectionate? That can’t be right.

“You eat like a caveman,” Oikawa says.

Iwaizumi snorts, grabbing another slice for himself. He gestures to Oikawa’s plate, where he’s busy cutting his own pizza with a fork and knife. “And you eat like a spoiled rich kid.”

Oikawa pouts, and it’s oddy cute, and Iwaizumi cringes as soon as he thinks it. What’s wrong with him today to make him get so uselessly sappy?

“What did you mean earlier?” Iwaizumi says, to distract himself. “When you said you don’t believe in luck?”

“Oh, that.” Oikawa shrugs. “I meant what I said. I don’t like leaving things up to fate or luck or—or talent. I’ve always thought that if you want something, you’ve gotta work for it.”

“Ah,” Iwaizumi says. Oikawa goes back to his pizza, chewing it carefully. His eyes look faraway, and Iwaizumi thinks that there must be a story behind those words.

He wonders if he’ll get a chance to hear it.

Unlikely. Iwaizumi takes his last bite of pizza and wipes his fingers on a napkin. Then: “Come here,” he says, grabbing Oikawa’s wrist and pulling him into his arms.

The mostly empty tray gets shoved to the side, and they end up curled together under the covers, this time facing the right direction.

“Shouldn’t we turn the lights off?” Iwaizumi asks.

Oikawa yawns. “Motion sensors. They’ll turn off soon.”

Iwaizumi shakes his head in fond amusement. Rich people. “Whatever you say.”

“Good night, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whispers.

“Night, angel.”

A pause.

“Tooru.”

“Hm?”

“You can call me Tooru.”

“...Night, then, Tooru.”

-

The next morning, Iwaizumi wakes up when the first rays of sunlight hit his face. He blinks open groggy eyes, sensitive to the newfound brightness, and belatedly realizes that they forgot to close the balcony curtains last night.

Speaking of _they…_

He and Oikawa lie facing each other, Oikawa still asleep with his knees tucked close to his chest and Iwaizumi’s body curled around his. He looks peaceful, oblivious to the fact that Iwaizumi is watching him. Soft puffs of air escape from his slightly ajar mouth, and his long eyelashes cast fragile shadows over his cheeks. His hair is still tousled from last night. Iwaizumi can’t help but remember how soft it felt.

He looks younger like this, more carefree. Iwaizumi marvels at how good the morning light looks on him.

This isn’t how things work. Vegas looks best at night, when everything is glitzy enough that no one bothers to look for any meaning behind it. It’s in the harsh daylight that everyone realizes how fake the city is, all shimmer and no substance. Oikawa is supposed to be the same. He isn’t supposed to be even more lovely now; Iwaizumi isn’t supposed to want him even more. But he does.

Oikawa makes a soft snuffling noise and buries his face in Iwaizumi’s chest. Iwaizumi’s heart stops, then speeds up, and slowly, so as not to disturb him, he wraps an arm around Oikawa’s shoulder and brings their bodies even closer together.

He tries not to move. The faint sounds of traffic drift up to them from the city streets below, and Iwaizumi can hear footsteps making their way around the suite just outside the bedroom. Kuroo must have come back sometime while they were asleep.

But those sounds are secondary. Most of Iwaizumi’s attention is on the rise and fall pattern of Oikawa’s chest, the soft hair tickling his chin, the pillow crease on Oikawa’s cheek. _Oikawa._

As if he’s heard Iwaizumi’s embarrassing thoughts, Oikawa shifts. His limbs stiffen in Iwaizumi’s hold before relaxing again, and he lifts his head to squint at Iwaizumi’s face. “Iwa?” he mumbles, the nickname slurred with sleep.

“Hey, angel,” Iwaizumi says. His own voice is hoarse, too.

He experiences a brief moment of terrifying panic over whether it’s okay for him to call Oikawa that now that they’re no longer intimate, but Oikawa lights up. “Morning, Iwa-chan,” he says, sounding more awake this time.

Iwaizumi kisses Oikawa's forehead, then brushes their lips together for just a moment before pulling back with a frown. Morning breath. “C’mon,” he says, nudging Oikawa’s shoulder. “Let’s go brush our teeth.”

“Noooo,” Oikawa whines, trying to tug the covers over his head.

Iwaizumi wrestles them out of his grasp. He digs a finger into Oikawa’s ribs, causing him to squeal in protest. When he tears the comforter away, revealing Oikawa’s body, Iwaizumi notices that his skin is littered in purpling marks: lovebites on his neck and chest, hand-shaped imprints around his waist and thighs. A jolt of arousal flares in Iwaizumi at the sight of his marks on Oikawa, but he tamps it down. “Come on, Shittykawa.”

Oikawa opens one eye to glare at him. “What did you just call me?”

“Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi repeats.

With a huff, Oikawa finally manages to sit up. “I run a multi million-dollar business, and Iwa-chan still has the audacity to give me rude nicknames.”

“Yeah, about that,” Iwaizumi says. “You might want to get that ego of yours checked out.” But he can tell that Oikawa is joking, the arrogance put on for show, so he leaves it be.

Iwaizumi swings his legs over the side of the bed and heads to the bathroom, smiling when he hears Oikawa scrambling to follow.

They brush their teeth side-by-side and even manage a proper shower with minimal distraction. Oikawa lends Iwaizumi a spare t-shirt and pair of sweatpants; they’re a little too long on him, but too tight around the shoulders and hips. Oikawa makes fun of him for it.

They straighten up the bedding as much as they can and leave the rest for the staff to handle. The leftover pizza goes in the trash because neither of them trust it not to have gone bad after being left out all night. Then Iwaizumi grabs his discarded work uniform, the last trace of his presence in the hotel room, off the floor and folds it. He stares down at it, then at Oikawa, cross-legged on the bed. Suddenly a wave of loss hits him full-force. It’s like he and Oikawa are two ships passing each other by, crossing paths for a brief moment before moving on, never to meet again.

He doesn’t want that to happen. He can’t think of anything he wants less.

But they occupy different worlds. He’ll be here, dealing blackjack until he gets tired of it and changes career paths or until he gets lung cancer from all the fucking smoke, whichever comes first. And Oikawa will go back to his fancy thirtieth-floor office in Manhattan or Tokyo or Los Angeles or where-the-fuck-ever and forget all about him.

By the look on his face, Oikawa feels the same. He pats the bedspread beside him.

Iwaizumi sits. He braces himself for the goodbye. Maybe Oikawa wants one more kiss to remember him by, or maybe that's Iwaizumi's wishful thinking.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, “let’s get married.”

Iwaizumi blinks.

That was the last thing he’d expected Oikawa to say. He’s beginning to understand that Oikawa Tooru defies expectation.

Oikawa’s eyes are wide and serious. He looks for all the world like he means it, but that idea is much too ludicrous to be true.

“What—” Iwaizumi manages. “What the fuck?”

“Isn’t that what people do in Vegas?” Oikawa asks. His tone is way too nonchalant for the topic at hand.

“Well—yeah, but they’re usually drunk.”

Oikawa ignores him. “There are like five drive-thru chapels down the street. If we go now, we can get brunch after.”

“You can’t be serious,” Iwaizumi says.

Miffed, Oikawa crosses his arms, glaring determinedly at the window. There’s an embarrassed blush high on his cheeks. “Why not?” he asks. “Would you think I was weird, Iwa-chan? If I said I feel like I’ve known you so much longer than I have?”

Iwaizumi exhales slowly. “...No,” he admits. He’s had similar thoughts.

“Then marry me.” And he must know he’s being selfish now. He must realize there’s no way Iwaizumi can say yes, no matter how much he wants to.

“I don’t know anything about you.”

“But you want to,” Oikawa presses. “And I want to know everything about you.”

Oikawa faces him again. Backlit by the sun, he really does look angelic. Ethereal, with the way the light catches in his hair and turns the tips bright gold.

Iwaizumi takes a deep breath. _Don’t bet more than you can afford to lose._

Can he afford to lose Oikawa? If they do try to make it work, if they do start a real relationship, what are the odds that it won’t crash to the ground in flames around them? And what are the odds that Iwaizumi survives if it does?

Oikawa’s eyes are careful, a tad wary, but tinged with hope. _I’ve always thought that if you want something, you’ve gotta work for it._

Maybe there’s more to life than probability.

“If you want to spend more time together, there are better ways to do it,” Iwaizumi says. “How much longer are you in Vegas for?”

“Don’t answer my question with another question!” But Oikawa’s smiling. He gets it.

“How long?”

“...Two weeks.” Oikawa frowns, chewing his lip. “I’ll be busy for most of it. There’s a marketing conference—sales pitches, meetings, presentations, all that. Seijoh is looking to invest in cybersecurity.” Iwaizumi can all but see the gears turning in his head. “Kuroo owes me—I could get him to attend some of my workshops for me and take notes—no, better, record them—I can move this Friday’s business dinner to a Sunday lunch and that should leave most of Friday evening and Saturday open…” His eyes dart back to Iwaizumi. “...to spend with you. That’s what you meant, right?”

Iwaizumi takes his hand and presses it. He probably looks fond as hell, but he can’t help but be endeared by Oikawa’s obvious dedication to his work. “Yeah, dumbass, why else?” Iwaizumi says. He flicks Oikawa’s forehead, smirking when the other man whines at him. “I want to see you again. Maybe not get hitched right away, but… let’s see where it goes, yeah?”

Oikawa beams at him, slotting their fingers each other. They fit like interchangeable parts.

This is a city built on smoke and mirrors, but maybe that doesn’t mean they can’t make something real out of it together.

“I’d like that,” Oikawa says. Iwaizumi kisses him again, and it tastes like sunshine.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i'm super new to haikyuu and this is my first fic, so i would love to hear what you thought! feel free to leave a kudos, comment, or come talk to me on twitter [@oikazumii! ](https://twitter.com/oikazumii) :D


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